


The Little Match Boy

by firesign10



Category: NCIS
Genre: Christmas, Dark, M/M, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Tissue Warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-27
Updated: 2013-12-27
Packaged: 2018-01-06 07:09:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1103931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's lost, alone, and cold on Christmas Eve . . .</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Little Match Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 20 of the tibbs_yuletide Advent Calendar on LJ. Thanks to sinfulslasher for running this wonderful event again! Thanks to roxymissrose for her invaluable first read! Thanks to pipisafoat for a great, speedy beta!

The snow falls so quickly that Tony's footprints are covered within seconds. He thinks grimly to himself that at least he isn't walking in the woods, because he'd be lost in a matter of minutes. Then he'd freeze to death, what with the cold and the snow and the ridiculous wind chill. The display window of an electronics shop he'd passed had had a big-screen TV (with a huge red bow on it, natch) and the weatherman blabbered something about record cold temps and a wind chill of minus 25. So, good thing he's in the city and not traipsing around, lost in the woods.

That he's probably going to freeze to death anyway is just . . . ironic.

At least he thinks it's ironic. Frankly, he's pretty damn cold already, and it's starting to fuck with his thought process. He abandons checking his idioms and instead reties the scarf around his ears and neck, trying to block as much of the wind as possible. He's so grateful to even have the scarf and the thick gloves that accompany it, gifts from the local shelter. He was lucky enough to have been there for a hot meal at just the right time for the winter items distribution. Some big company donated a ton of scarves and hats and gloves for the indigent and homeless who frequent the shelter. DiNutso? DiNardo? DiNozzo! That was it, DiNozzo Industries. One of the biggest companies in the country.

Something scratches at Tony's brain. Isn't _his_ last name DiNozzo? Huh, that's a coincidence! Imagine if he was part of _that_ DiNozzo family! He'd be all warm and cozy right now in some big house, fancy furniture, servants bringing him delicious food. There'd be a big fire burning, all crackling and bright. God! He loved a good fire. And a big TV, just like that shop had had, nice fifty-six inch flat-screen, so he could watch all the movies he wanted. Tony loved movies, could quote tons of them, always knew all the actors. He could even do the accents - British, Indian, German, Scottish, you name it. Oh yeah, he could just see the whole scene, blazing brightly in front of him . . . 

A freezing wet splash douses his lower legs, jolting Tony out of his reverie. The car that splashed him is already gone, red tail-lights fading into the night. Tony sighs, contemplating the mess the dousing has made of his pants. They're soaked through with muddy water, little ice crystals clinging to the material. Nothing to be done about it - he has no others.

He needs to move, to walk. Keep his body temperature up, and maybe he'll find a spot to hunker down in. Keep moving, like a shark. Sharks must move to breathe, to live. Tony dimly remembers his father saying that, during various lectures espousing his business - heck, his life - philosophy. It was all mixed up with looking out for oneself, and how it was good to be king. It's all rather hazy in Tony's chilled brain, like it happened a long time ago. A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Tony chuckles a little. He's a pretty witty guy, Tony is. A real card.

He keeps walking, not paying attention to his route -- he's just walking to keep warm. He only half-notices that he's leaving the business area, tall buildings shrinking to townhouses and apartment blocks. Didn't he know someone who lived in one of those, once? Some nerd, a real computer geek, brilliant but kinda naive . . . he'd been like a younger brother that Tony had chivvied and coached at the same time. A friend. Elf-Lord . . . no, that wasn't his real name, but it was all that was left in Tony's head.

Walking, walking . . . the wind is biting cold, snowflakes are blowing around in a decidedly un-festive manner. Tony ducks around a building for a quick break from the worst of the wind. A bit of color on the snowy walkway catches his eye, brightly colored cardboard -- a matchbook! Tony pounces on it, holds it close. He removes a glove and tears a match off, huddling against the wall to strike it. Oh, the bright flare, yellow and white. The faint smell of sulfur, the lovely heat of it against his skin. He blinks slowly and sighs. Dancing flames atop candles, lots of candles, all lined up and burning, drifts through his mind's eye. He's sitting in a hot tub surrounded by candles, the cold winter air held at bay by the steaming water and the glowing flames. Him and . . . and . . . why does he keep losing all the names? It’s the strong man, the one with the beautiful silver hair and the good heart. The one who is so frequently in Tony's dreams.

The match fizzles out and Tony opens his eyes, feeling colder and more lost than before. That was the first time the man was in a hot tub; other times, he was sitting at a desk, standing as he talked to Tony and the Elf-Lord, hugging a dark-haired, tall girl. Hugging Tony.

Tony's heart aches for a loss he doesn't fully understand, until it's superseded by the urgency of movement. The longer he stands still, the more the cold encroaches on his body, making his blood sluggish. Time to get moving, before he can't. He's seen others go this way -- curled up in a false warmth that's really the opposite. He stamps his feet a couple of times and turns back onto the sidewalk, trudging slowly as he keeps the wind at his back.

He's half-dreaming as he walks, not really watching where he's going. He doesn't know how far he's gone, but he stops when a front door pops open. The house across from where he's standing must be having a party, as several cars are parked there and the windows are full of light. Another guest has just arrived, as a young woman crosses the snowy yard to greet the people standing in the doorway. The light of the house falls on her smiling face, framed by black hair tied into braids, fastened with crimson yarn. Tony smiles too; her face is so lovely, warm and full of cheer as she hugs the crowd that greets her.

Tony can see inside the house a little now -- there's a big tree, covered in twinkly lights, and someone is bringing out a big turkey. His mouth waters -- no, it floods, the thought of that delicious, succulent bird provoking every single salivary gland. He has to swallow hard not to drool. And if they're having turkey, then there must be so much other food too: vegetables, potatoes, savory stuffing. Warm bread, with lots of butter melting on it. And pies, fragrant with fruit and spices, their crusts crumbling under a fork. . .

The door slams shut and wakes Tony from his spell. The visions of the feast pop like champagne bubbles, and he's left colder and hungrier than before. Maybe he could knock and ask for something? They had so much, maybe they'd share a little? The dark-haired girl, surely she would. She looked so much like the one in his dreams, the one he half-remembered, the one who hugged the silver-haired man. Black braids, or pony-tails on top of her head, and clothes in black and white and red, sometimes decorated with crosses or kittens. She had a hippo . . . except how could someone really have a hippo? How could it fit inside? He had to be wrong, which was no surprise considering he didn't think too well anymore, but still, a gray hippo kept floating in his mind.

It's extra dark and cold after that glimpse of merriment and plenty, and Tony finally stops behind a big tree to light another match. Okay, maybe . . . two this time. Two is good, and then he'll save the rest. He tears them off and strikes them, and the flame is bigger, brighter. He smiles as he leans against the rough bark, watching the pretty flame , keeping his hand around it so it won't get blown out. It reminds him of another flame, this one on a skinny candle that's stuck in a cupcake. The black-haired girl -- Anna? no, that's not right -- is holding it and smiling, and she's telling the other men - the Elf-Lord and the silver-haired man -- to sing, because it's Tony's birthday and this is Tony's cupcake, Tony's candle. Everyone is laughing, even the solemn woman with the olive skin and thick, curly hair. Another man joins then, short and stocky with a bow tie and glasses, singing with a Scottish accent.

Tony looks at his cupcake and listens to his friends -- his family -- sing to him. _It doesn't get any better than this_ , he thought. _I'll never forget this._

And apparently, he hadn't. He'd forgotten a lot of things, but that moment was still with him.

The matches go out in a wisp of smoke, and Tony's happy dream evaporates the same way. He shivers and quickly starts walking again. On and on he walks, head down, feet moving, arms wrapped tightly around himself. He crosses a bridge, high over the white, choppy water, and doesn't even look over. He's scared to look over; scared that looking might lead to action. Not jumping takes a lot of effort when hope is down to a shadow. Half of his resistance is simply he cannot -- _cannot_ \-- imagine how cold that water must be. When the wind is whistling down his back and up his sleeves, chilling him inside and out, the thought of a greater cold is enough of a deterrent. For today anyway.

Well past the bridge, he comes to a diner. It's closed, of course; everyone is cozy at home this time of year. Tony goes behind the diner and looks into the dumpster. Maybe there's some good stuff waiting, leftovers they didn't want to save over the holiday but are still tasty. He digs around, pushing aside the plastic bags and empty boxes. He gasps -- there! Oh, he's lucky tonight! Half a steak and most of a foil-wrapped baked potato! Saliva rushes into his mouth as he picks up his treasure. It's cold, but he doesn't care. He tears into the meat, savoring the rich taste, the succulent texture. It's juicy despite the cold. He eats it all, even the little rim of fat, licking his fingers afterward. Then the potato, peeling away the foil as he bites, stuffing his mouth with the fluffy white inside and relishing the earthy skin.

Tony sinks down next to the dumpster, feeling happily full. He hasn't tasted food like that in a while. He's a little sheltered from the wind here, although the cold is an insidious devil and he can't escape it. He decides to celebrate his fine dinner by lighting a couple more matches. Inspiration hits, and he gathers some paper and cardboard scraps, along with a few twigs. He lights two matches and uses them to light his little pile of debris, sighing with pleasure when it catches. The dancing light and warmth captivate him, and he falls into a trance as he watches.

There's a fireplace with a blazing fire going inside it, and a wire rack sits inside the flames. Two steaks rest on the rack, and Tony's watching them sizzle and brown. He loves this, this cowboy steak, and he's spent many an evening sitting before this fireplace and dining on them. The silver-haired man is sitting next to him, and they both have glasses of some amber liquid in their hands. They sip and they talk, and turn the steaks. Finally the meat is done and the men eat with gusto. Dishes cleared away, they restock the fire and settle down again. Now they're sitting close, and Tony's heart is pounding. Are they . . . ? Will they . . .?

Ice blue eyes look deeply into his.

"Is this what you want, Tony?"

Tony can't speak, simply nods. _Yes, God yes, more than anything_. He can't get the words out, though. He's never said them like this before.

"I got ya, Tony. It's okay."

Lips against his, firm and faintly moist, no hint of cosmetics. Tony's hand comes up, hand sliding in the silver hair that's cut so short. He'd had so many women, an endless parade of them, and all to find out _this_ was what he really wanted.

Him. The silver-haired man. Funny name, two of them like a country singer has, and then two B's. Two B's . . .

A little hiss alerts Tony to the fire's demise. The asphalt is cold underneath his ass (some little part of Tony's brain sniggers at that, maybe he really is twelve) so he tries to stand up. His legs have stiffened, so he has to grab the dumpster to haul himself up all the way. Jesus, it's cold. He hears a little whimper and looks around, but he's alone. Slowly he realizes that whimper was him. He beats his chest and arms, stamps his feet to get the blood circulating. His feet feel a little like blocks of wood, but as he stamps, he gets some feeling back. 

Time to get moving again.

And so he walks and he walks, scarf pulled tight over his head, shoulders curled in. Random images slide in and out of his head like scenes from a movie as his feet keep moving. A big, handsome, barrel-chested man yelling at him, waving one hand angrily as the other clutches a heavy, cut-crystal glass. _You're not my son anymore! DiNozzos aren't fairies, aren't faggots! You'll never see a dime of my money again! You pervert!_ Tony looks ahead, tears forming in his eyes only to freeze on his cheeks. The hate . . . the hurt.

He'd run from that ugly scene, first with his feet and then with his car. He was looking for the silver-haired man, that's who he'd wanted, that's who had always made everything okay. Made Tony okay. Made him _better_ , a better man. Tony needed to find him, and he was rushing, tears blinding him just like they were now. 

The tears flow constantly now, even though the moisture chaps Tony's cheeks in the bitter air. He walks faster as his distress mounts. He ran, he remembers now, he ran and then he drove a long way and then -- there was a deer. A deer ran in front of his car and he'd hit it, slammed full on into it, felt the shock of his car crumpling with the impact. His head had slammed against the steering wheel and the window and the headrest, ricocheting as the car stopped, before his body settled. Blood ran down his face, the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt. A wave of panic had enveloped him like a cloud, a fog laced with fear and blood, and he couldn't get out, couldn't get free of it, couldn't push the misty tendrils away, and nothing . . . _nothing_ had worked right since.

He's full-out sobbing now, crying out loud as he almost runs down the sidewalk. Everything had ended then, even though he hadn't realized it yet. He'd lost his way, lost his people, lost his man. Lost himself -- all that ricocheting seemed to have scrambled his brain. All that was left were these glimpses and images, and he couldn't put them all together and make any sense.

He'd fled from the accident before anybody came, only bearing the clothes on his back and his first name. He was scared of all the strange people ( _You pervert! Get away!_ ); he feared his weakness was obvious, his neediness blatant. Maybe everyone could see he was a pervert ( _Only you, Jethro. Only man I ever wanted._ ). He hid from people as much as possible while he made his way into the city and kept on the move.

The surge of fear and distress fatigues Tony, and he slows his pace, dragging his feet now as he pushes himself to keep moving. The lovely pictures from his earlier fires start to replace the scenes of panic and pain, and he thinks about lighting some matches again. Only -- maybe this time, he'll light them all. As his heart slows back down, he's aware of the tingling in his limbs. He really needs to find somewhere warm; he senses the danger that's barely at bay.

The street he's on now is a residential one, lined with cozy houses and yards enclosed by picket fences. The snow looks downright picturesque as it blows around big oak trees and past windows that are gleaming with lights. His pace slows as he walks down the street -- his energy is waning -- and he looks at every house with longing. One house stands out in the bright neighborhood; it's noticeably darker, boasting only a single string of lights encircling the bay window. The lack of any other lights or decorations makes the house look sad, just like Tony feels.

He feels sorry for the house, so dark and alone, and walks up its front path. The porch has a big overhang and some side beams, so there isn't as much snow on the step. He sits down, huddled against the door, his back to the beams. There's no lights on inside, so no one is probably home and he won't disturb anyone. He's keeping the sad house company, and he can look at all the cheerful houses from his seat. This is a good spot to rest.

Tony pulls the matchbook out, regarding it solemnly. It's over half-full still -- he should get some nice light and warmth from it. If he burns it . . . all at once. He resolutely ignores that this is probably it for him; he's cold, hungry, lost, alone. The best he can hope for right now is one last moment of warmth and joy, called up from his errant memories. That's okay . . . hope isn't for the abandoned, like him.

He tears off one match, lights it, and then uses it to light the whole book.

Oh, what a delicious fire! So bright he has to squint, after trudging in the dark so long. So warm that his fingers almost flinch. He holds on tightly though, staring into the flames . . . 

He's staring into another fire, this one in a big stone fireplace. The wood is snapping and little sparks dance up the flue. He hears a masculine chuckle and turns his head. The silver-haired man is right next to him, smiling at him with white teeth and those ice-blue eyes. 

"Like the fire, Tony?" he asks warmly, throwing an arm around Tony's bare shoulders. He's naked! They both are! But far from crying "pervert!", the man kisses Tony. Tony's fine with that if it means he can be here with the silver-haired man. The kiss is lovely; firm and warm against Tony's mouth, and then a warm, wet tongue slips between his lips and that -- oh, that's wonderful! Tony responds enthusiastically and pulls the man down so they both lie on the thick blanket spread in front of the fire.

"I love you, Tony," the silver-haired man says, and Tony's heart fills with joy.

"I love you too," he says, and the kissing resumes.

They twine together, bodies pressed against each other, hands exploring naked skin. They rub against each other, until the man grasps their hard cocks and strokes them as one. Tony explodes with cries of joy, and the man smiles before doing the same, their come mingled on their bellies. They continue lying together, wrapped up in the soft blanket and watching the logs slowly collapse in the the flames.

Tony starts as the matchbook flares up one last moment before going out. The porch is briefly illuminated by headlights coming down the street, and then he's in darkness again. Part of his mind knows the he needs to move, to get up and get his blood flowing again. The other part says We're comfortable now . . . let's just rest here. The time to fight is over . . . you can simply drift away now, wrapped up in the warmth of your memories . . .

A tear trickles down his cheek. He never meant to end up like this; never thought his life would fall apart so fast. Never thought his silver-haired man . . . _Jim? No . . . Jem? Jet? No, close, what was it? Please, let me have his name back, please, I've lost everything else_ . . . Jethro! He never thought Jethro would be gone forever.

Tony smiles, holding the name carefully in his mind. _Jethro_. And once more that handsome face, those beautiful blue eyes, arms embracing him, holding him close and warm as Tony closes his eyes and drifts away . . .

 

 *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  

"TONY!"

Tony dimly hears the voice, loud and angry, but keeps his eyes tightly shut. This wasn't part of his happy dream. _Leave me alone, I just want to stay here,_ he thinks groggily. He was warm, and Jethro was with him. He could almost feel Jethro's strong arms around him, shaking him gently . . .

 

"Tony! Tony! Wake up, wake up! Tony, c'mon, you gotta wake up. Duck! Do something!"

"We're doing what we can, Jethro. We must be cautious about raising his body temperature too quickly. I don't think he was sitting there too long -- he's shivering hard, but I don't see any real signs of frostbite. Get another blanket in front of the fire to warm up, we'll switch it out with the one around him now. Once he's awake, we can start with warm fluids -- tea and warm juice and broth."

"I'll go get that ready, Ducky," said a husky female voice. Tony thinks about the black-haired girl -- was she there? Was everyone there? Could he stay here, stay in the warm dream with the people that he knew meant something to him? Tears begin oozing from between his tightly closed eyelids.

"Oh, Jesus, Duck - he's crying." The man's voice is heartbroken. Tony wonders why he is so sad. "Tony . . . Tony, please come back. I love you, baby. Been missing you for so long. Almost two months you've been gone now. Please, Tony, don't leave me now that we found you."

Tony feels so bad for the man -- he knows all about losing people. He forces a hand under a flap of blanket and grabs the man's hand that is resting on him.

The man jumps and gasps. " _DUCKY!_ Holy shit, Duck! He's -- he's hanging on to me! Tony, keep hanging onto me! I've got you, baby, I've got you!"

Tony hears the sob in the man's voice. It takes a lot of effort, but he manages to squeeze the hand now gripping his.

"'S alright . . .don' worry. Gon' wait wi' you . . . not gon' be 'lone . . . " he slurs from numb lips.

"That's a good man, Tony! You're doing beautifully! Just hang onto Jethro and we'll have you all warmed up in a jiffy!" The other man's warm Scottish burr is as cheering as the fire that Tony can hear now, crackling away.

"I've got broth ready, Ducky! And tea after that," says the girl, anxiety thick in her clear voice. "Is he going to be okay?"

"I think he has an excellent chance. Tony is a strong man, and I think we found him in time. Thank God I decided to stop by, Jethro. I thought I caught sight of a flame in my headlights, and there he was. Let's change blankets now, this one is quite warm."

Tony is propped up, leaning against something hard, and his blanket is stripped off and replaced by another one that is absolutely toasty. He sighs with pleasure, relaxing against the hard thing behind him. Arms come around and hold him close, and he realizes that it's Jethro. He's leaning against Jethro, being held by Jethro, and he wants to burst with happiness.

"Oh, Jethro, he's smiling! Look, Ducky, look at his smile! Tony, thank God you're okay!" the girl exclaims, and then Tony hears her crying.

"Hey, Abby, it's okay," says a new voice, a soft, male one. "He's going to be okay."

"McGee, where's he _been_ all this time? Why couldn't we find him before?" she implores tearfully.

"I don't know, we'll have to wait and hear it from him, but we did find him -- or really, I guess, he found us. How'd he do that, Ducky?" McGee asks.

"By the looks of things, he suffered quite a head trauma when his car hit that deer. While I have to hypothesize for now, I'd say he's been suffering from a fair bit of trauma-induced amnesia. Coupled with his subsequent malnutrition and exposure over these last few weeks, and now this dreadful cold and snow, he's probably barely known his own name." Ducky sighed. "As to how he found his way home -- well, dogs have been known to cross the country to find their home. Why couldn't Tony have made it across the county to find his? The mechanism of instinct is hardly understood."

Jethro's arms continue to hold Tony tight, and he feels utterly at peace. Home. He's home. He knows there's so much to figure out, but he doesn't care right this minute.

"Hey, Tony? Can ya open up your eyes there? Abby's got hot broth for you. And we're all here, Tony; me, Ducky, Abby, McGee. We're all here to help you, sweetheart." Jethro's voice breaks. " God, Tony, so happy you found your way home. Missed you so damn much. Didn't think -- there was a while there I didn't think I was gonna make it without you." Jethro kisses Tony's cheek, squeezes him just a little. "Thank you for coming back. Love you so much."

Tony sighs, boneless with warmth and love. He slowly cracks his eyes open. There's the blazing fire, and a blanket warming in front of it. Ducky is kneeling next to him, immediately peering into his eyes. Abby and McGee are holding each other a few steps back, watching with concern. Next to them is a big Christmas tree, decorations all over it, presents underneath. He turns his head and finally sees Jethro; beautiful silver hair, glistening blue eyes, a half-smile on his face. Tony smiles at him.

"Mer' Chris'mas, Jethro. 'M home."


End file.
